Mulligan
by almcvay1
Summary: Collection of light-hearted one-shots. Lizzington.
1. Chapter 1

Author Note: I own nothing. Really. Also, this is bordering on crack, because apparently, that's what I write after half a bottle of wine. Red, of course. ;-)

Mulligan: A do-over

Lizzie wanted the ground to swallow her. She prayed for it every time that man walked into a room she happened to inhabit. And god she tried so hard to keep her face cool, expressionless in his presence. The problem was that it didn't seem to work. All he had to do was flick a knowing glance in her direction and she would feel the blood flame in her cheeks as her eyes became fever bright. The heat Red could put out just walking into a room was an x-file Lizzie wouldn't touch.

If she was being truthful, which she tended to be after a few glasses of wine, she could admit that Reddington had pulled at her libido since the day she walked into the Post Office and found him in a see-through box. The smirk, the hooded eyes watching her like it was a profession, the casual, offhand suggestive comments all combined into a critical mass of pheromones. She couldn't keep her thoughts straight, so she resorted to anger to express the frustration, to keep her from revealing too much.

But Red was never fooled. She could tell he knew. He was willing to let her protest in whatever form she chose; if it made her happy. He came to her in dreams that heated her skin with passion, sent her pulse racing and woke her up twisted in her sheets, soaked in sweat. She resorted to icy showers before work to regulate her limbic system. It seemed to work pretty well. Except that one time.

She was late to work; he was also just arriving and stepped into the elevator behind her. She had been so focused on her tardiness that for a moment, she didn't realize with whom she was alone. But before she could even marshal her defense, he had his hands on her hips and his mouth on the back of her neck as he spoke quietly in her ear, that velvet baritone shattering through her nerves as she shuddered in his arms.

"What do you want, Agent Keen? What do you really want?" Her eyes flew wide as she recognized the words from her dreams, slid closed at his low chuckle against her throat. He raked his teeth from her shoulder to her ear, soothing the abrasion with his tongue.

"I know what you want, Lizzie. Never forget that I know."

And then the elevator stopped. Red got out, strode into the main room. Lizzie hit the door close button and returned to the parking garage. She needed a mulligan.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: So there was this plot bunny...another one shot. I own nothing. Well, I do own a car, but I don't own the Blacklist.

Lizzie Wins

Reddington's safe house was a Georgian monstrosity in Falls Church. The owner took an extended vacation after "borrowing" some company funds, so Red was playing house sitter. It was a mausoleum of terrible taste, except for the one redeeming factor; it had a gym.

So now here she was in her tank top and FBI Academy sweatpants, about to take advantage of that amenity. It had been some time since she had done any physical training other than running or firearms and with Red in her life; she seemed to wind up in fist fights almost as often as fire fights.

The door swung open as she was fastening her padded gloves, she glanced up and did a double take as Raymond Reddington sauntered in wearing a t-shirt and his own pair of sweats. Naval Academy. Well, hell, looked like she would be going one on one with the FBI's Number Four.

"I thought Dembe was going to work out with me?"

"Dembe has an errand. You'll have to make do with me, Agent Keen. I promise you, I am completely capable of kicking your ass," the smirk turned into a leer almost as he began to put on the sparring gear. Lizzie narrowed her eyes at him. On one hand, she might have a slightly better chance with him than with Dembe. But on the other hand, everything she knew about Red told her that he wouldn't fight fair. He never did.

They squared off in the center of the black-taped circle; both of them knew the rules of sparring. Lizzie was still, Red could see the gears turning in her head as she strategized. She was cool and composed, not a hair turned by nervousness, and he couldn't help but admire that about her. It had been a long time for him, admittedly, but sparring had always been a favorite of his in the Academy, and his lifestyle kept those skills well-honed. This would be brilliant. If nothing else, it will get his hands on a little more of his Lizzie.

Lizzie decided to go in hot, as Sam had once told her, "Go whole hog or no hog at all," she kept away from him, tried to stay on her feet and moving. He had the better reach, but she could get under his guard. She was landing some decent punches to his midsection, but she would be lying if she called that winning. They were circling like dogs in an alley, he was watching her with eyes gone sharp and hot. This wasn't the debonair, refined Concierge of Crime; this was a man who had been required to fight for his life, more than once. This was a predator; it was there in his smile.

Lizzie gave no quarter, Red mused as he circled her, looking for his opening. As long as she was up and moving, she had the advantage. She could wear him down eventually. She had a nasty left hook and he was fairly sure that he would have the bruises to prove it. Then he saw what he needed, her front guard dropped for a moment, and he was in.

He grabbed her wrist and pulled her in front of him, snaking an arm around her neck. For a moment, she froze, as though she was uncertain how she'd gotten there and Red smiled into the soft skin of her throat. She smelled like sweat and soap and some smoky perfume that shot straight to his brain.

"Oh Lizzie, you should have never let me get a grip, sweetheart," he crooned in her ear and her body shivered hard against him.

How she went from staying light and keeping her distance to being pinned against the solid bulk of him, she couldn't recall. But she knew what had happened. She had dropped her guard. She had assumed a weakness in her opponent that she had no evidence existed. He was much stronger than she had realized, and much of that bulk that he dressed in Savile Row suits was in fact, muscle. She rotated into him, and used the arm he had taken for leverage and executed a sloppy but effective hip toss. He countered by sweeping her feet out from under her and then they were grappling on the floor, move and counter move.

She had hooked her legs around his waist, squeezing the ribs she had pummeled earlier, Lizzie expected him to break the grip. Instead, he slid his hands down her thighs to her hips, and then just under her shirt where he raked his fingernails lightly across her skin. There was that shiver again, as heat poured through her like lava. She stared at him while a blush crept up from her chest to her face. The smile that crawled across his face was completely filthy, which is possibly why she lost her mind.

She tightened her legs and levered herself up, grabbing his shirt as a handhold. Once she was face to face, she gave him her very own smirk, and crushed her lips to his. His arms came around her, almost too tightly, as his lips ate at hers. The kiss began as a tactic, then it twisted out of her control, Raymond Reddington's mouth was a damn miracle and she was ready to convert. Her brain spun out as he coaxed her lips to part, licked at them, raked his teeth across them. She heard a whimper, followed by a sigh, and was alarmed to realize they had come from her.

When they finally broke for oxygen, she was straddling his lap, which he was apparently very happy about, and one look at his eyes confirmed he was as dazed as she was. There was her moment. She crossed her arms over her chest and used her legs to throw her body into his chest, pushing him back onto the floor. She brought her knees up and pinned his arms down, smiled and slapped the mat beside his head.

Lizzie wins.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: **Just a cute little scene I had in my head tonight. Properly disclaimed, of course.

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Light Sleeper

Lizzie eased open the door to Red's bedroom. The safe house they were using in Normandy was a drafty stone farmhouse, heated inadequately by fireplaces in the bedrooms. The fire was down to live coals in Red's room, and she was hoping to borrow a pair of socks. She knew they would be far too large, but her feet were freezing.

He was sleeping when she came in, curled on his side, facing the fire. The warm glow blurred the lines around his nose and mouth; he looked almost ten years younger. He's wearing a fleece sweatshirt; he must have been cold as well. She stepped carefully, trying very hard to avoid making the old wood floorboards creak under her weight.

She reached the bureau and carefully opened the bottom drawer. She smiled when she saw the neatly folded socks, arranged by color. Her hand had just grasped a pair of thick hiking socks when she heard the rack of a pistol, whose cold barrel was now under her ear.

"Move an inch, and I will drop you like dirt." Her gasp echoed in the room, and she dropped the socks back in the drawer.

"Red?" her voice almost squeaked. Was he sleepwalking? Oh god, she should have just stayed in her room and died of hypothermia like a smart woman.

"Lizzie?" He was still half-asleep, voice barely above a growl. The barrel moved away and she heard him release the slide. Light flooded the room as he hit the switch for the lamp. Hands like vises gripped her shoulders and spun her around to face him.

"What are you thinking, sneaking around like that? I could have killed you!"

"Yes, I see that."

"Well what in sam hill do you need? Was it important enough to get shot?"

Lizzie feels herself begin to tremble, both from the cold and from the shock of being threatened in the middle of the night. Red rubs his eyes and grabs his glasses off the bedside table. She's wearing a thin tank and a pair of shorts; no wonder she's freezing. But he can also tell that he scared the hell out of her, so he pulls her into his body and wraps her tightly in his arms, rubbing her skin to warm her. She's still shivering, but she's slowly relaxing.

Red pulls back a fraction so he can look at her face. Her color is returning.

"You okay? I'm so sorry Lizzie, I'm a light sleeper."

Her eyebrows arch incredulously.

"A light sleeper? Is that what you call it? Not a psychotic episode, then, what a relief! I just wanted some socks, Red. My feet are cold." Her voice, petulant and cross, and if he is correct, the beginning of a fine pout on her pretty face. He smiles down at her.

"You're cold, Lizzie? Well, by all means, let's warm you up."

"Wait, Red…" She doesn't get another word before he sweeps her up and tosses her gently on to the large bed. He crawls in after her, pulls her into his side with her head on his shoulder. He kisses her forehead and brushes her hair back.

"Get some rest, Lizzie. I'll keep you safe."

She is already half asleep, but he hears her mumble before she drifts off, "Who's gonna save me from you, Red?"


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** I listened to "Thunder Road" today and this happened. As always, own nothing. Especially not the Boss.

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Drive

Lizzie could hear the distant growl of a powerful engine as she sat on the front porch of Sam's house in Nebraska. He lived outside the city limits, on a little piece of land off the old county highway. She loved how she could stand in the backyard and look out at the horizon. No buildings, not many trees, just space and possibilities as far as the eye could see.

Her Aunt June had recommended that she sell the place. The house was tiny, not in very good repair, and would likely be torn down; but the land it sat on was very valuable. Lizzie knew she was probably right, but right now, she just couldn't imagine parting with it. She stood up, wiping her hands on her denim cutoffs. She'd been cleaning most of the day and her ragged Bruce Springsteen t-shirt was dusty and spotted with bleach. She figured she would take a shower and have a glass of wine on the porch.

The distant growl became a throaty roar as it drifted closer. The sun was sinking on that far horizon and coated the land in a reddish glaze. She saw a black muscle car blazing up the highway. She smiled and thought about the times Sam had fussed about the teenage boys who used to drag race up the road when she was growing up. She stood when she saw the car slow down and turn into the drive to the house. She thought of her FBI service weapon just inside on the table by the door, but she opted to wait; it was likely just one of the neighbors or someone who needed directions.

The car stopped, and it was a beauty. Glossy black on a vintage body; she didn't know much about cars really, but she liked this one. The driver got out, and Lizzie's heart began to free-fall. Close-cropped hair, amber-tinted sunglasses and a swagger she'd recognize anywhere. Red.

Red was here, in Nebraska. Wearing a pair of broken in jeans and a loose white button-down, she almost didn't believe it was him. He'd never appeared so casual before, not in DC. Not anywhere. But as he sidled up to the porch, she had to admit the look suited him. It suited him brilliantly.

"Hello, Lizzie."

"Red. What are you doing here?"

"Samar mentioned you had taken a short vacation to sort out Sam's house. I would have been happy to help you with this, if you needed it."

"I didn't need your help," she frowned at him, standing there on the porch steps, "I can handle this. And I needed a break from the city."

"And from me as well, Lizzie?" He pulled off the sunglasses with a quick half-smile. He was correct, of course. But she would never admit to it. Never admit that as angry and confused as he made her, there was an equal and opposite feeling of being completely spellbound by him.

She looked past him to the car. She never realized he could drive. He certainly never did so with her before. She leaned a hip against the porch railing and smirked at him.

"Nice wheels. I didn't know you drove."

"Of course I drive. I'm just choosy about the machines I handle."

He refused to be baited and just smiled at her. She stood in the shade of the porch, all long legs and big blue eyes. She was breath taking and just a little sad underneath. He held up the keys to the Trans-Am and gave her his very best I-dare-you look.

"Want to take a ride, pretty Lizzie?"

For just a moment, Lizzie wasn't sure if he really meant the car as her brain dove into the gutter. She gave herself a moment to think about what kind of ride he would be, given the fit of those jeans. She turned away before he could see her blush.

"Let me get my shoes."

The two-lane highway is deserted under the setting sun, and the evening cool is a nice break from the heat of the day. She watched as Red as he shifted gears, smooth and easy, hands steady and competent. She always liked his hands. She let the wind from the rolled down windows blow her hair into a tangle, she would be sorry later, but right now she didn't care. She didn't even ask him where they were going, she gave her over analytical brain the night off, tomorrow would be soon enough to start worrying again.

Red reached out to the radio and punched a few buttons, and the wail of a harmonica filled the car. She looked at him sideways, she'd never thought of what music Red would like while driving. The song was a little vintage, like the car and the man who drove it.

"Screen door slams, and Mary just sways…" the gravelly vocals of Bruce Springsteen pour out of the speakers as they drive through the dusk. Lizzie closed her eyes, only opening one of them when she felt Red's hand on her thigh, just his hand on her skin. It's comforting in a way, she thinks, as she settles back into her seat, and lets the Boss handle the rest.

"In the lonely cool before dawn, hear their engines roaring on; but when you get to the porch they're gone on the wind…"

She lets herself day dream about parking the car out at the lake and sitting on the hood of the car, watching the stars come out. Maybe he would lean back against the trunk, pulling her between his denim-clad thighs, tangling his hand in her hair before he kisses her. Maybe it would be one of those nights she used to dream about in high school, long kisses and wandering hands leaving both of them almost desperate. She smiled a little to herself.

"Turn left up here, Red. I'd like to go down to the lake."

Red smiled at her, and turned left.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: This chapter is a gift for my beta **thefirstfewchapters**, because she has a thing for Red in handcuffs. Hope you enjoy!

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The Watchman

Lizzie made her way up to the thirtieth floor of Bally's Las Vegas hotel. They had traced the Blacklister known as The Watchman, an abduction artist who specialized in corporate espionage, based on the information Red had given them in DC. The only thing he had been a wrong about was The Watchman's target. It wasn't Sandra Compton, senior board member of a pharmaceutical giant. It was Red. He had vanished as though he were part of the Penn and Teller show. The task force had spent a week combing the Strip hotels trying to find where the Watchman stashed his captives.

The floor was slated for renovation, so no guests would be booked in the rooms. Construction had not begun yet, so the floor was empty. It was a perfect spot to hide someone for a short time. Lizzie and Samar were clearing the rooms one at a time. Lizzie began in the west hall, Samar in the east. The passkey that she had gotten from the manager would open all the doors. Lizzie's only worry was someone tipping off their target. As she and Samar had left the manager's office, she thought she saw one of the clerks pick up the phone as they had made their way to the elevators.

Room number 3030 was next. She swiped her card and waited for the green light before shoving the door open. Inside, shackled to a chair, and blindfolded sat the Concierge of Crime himself. Lizzie had to take a moment to appreciate the picture of Red. His fedora and linen suit jacket were tossed on the bed, she didn't see his vest anywhere, and his blue pinstripe dress shirt half unbuttoned though somehow still tucked in to his trousers. Only Raymond Reddington could be held hostage for a week, and still look like he could be attending the Kentucky Derby. Lizzie smiled to herself; she had to admit he had style.

Red heard the door open and shut, so he knew someone was in the room. He didn't like the shackles at all, and the blindfold was not his kink. They usually only went to this trouble when he was to be moved, or when his captor arranged his meals. He waited to see which it was to be this time. As abductions went, he thought this one might be in his top five. Smoothly done, without injury, the only trouble was the boredom.

Whoever had come in walked very quietly. Red turned his head, tracked the faint sounds, even though he couldn't see the source. As they came closer though, he detected a faint scent of perfume. Lizzie's perfume. He managed not to smile, but instead licked his lips, waiting for her to unlock the cuffs.

She didn't.

Lizzie watched him carefully, checking him for injury. He seemed perfectly fine and healthy. If she had to tell the truth, she thought he looked rather fetching all chained up, especially with the undone shirt. She could see the mix of crisp light brown hair as it trailed across a surprisingly sculpted chest, narrowing as it continued down his stomach. The longer she looked at him, the warmer the room seemed to become. Lizzie tried to shake the inappropriate thoughts, but just as she brought her mind back to reality, he licked his lips. Her brain took the express elevator to the gutter and she pressed her lips together to avoid making a sound.

"Lizzie." His voice was deep and a little rough.

She pulled off the blindfold but he kept his eyes closed, probably to adjust to the light. Lizzie acted before she could think it over, seizing his face in her hands, brushing her lips over his cheeks, brows, finally his lips. She satisfied the curiosity of months, trying not to watch his mouth when he spoke, blushing bright pink whenever he caught her at it. His mouth was like velvet against hers and she didn't want to ever move again. She straddled his thighs and changed the angle of the kiss, deeper this time, coaxing his lips to open for that first taste. He lingered on her tongue like brandy, warm and rich, with a hint of spice. Lizzie knew she would pay for this somehow, but she was going to make sure it was worth the price.

Lizzie tasted like summer; that was the only thought he could hold onto under her assault. She was honey sweet and he could not get enough of the flavor. She sank down on to him, winding her arms around his shoulders, skimming her nails over the back of his head and moaning when he nibbled her bottom lip. His frustration at the cuffs was tripled, he couldn't touch her like her wanted. So he poured everything into this kiss. Every fantasy, every wish, every time he saved her, and all the times she saved him in return. Love poured out of him like water from a stone, and all he wanted was for Lizzie to feel it, to know that he loved her.

The ring of her cell phone from her jacket pocket was discordant and out of place. Despite his groan of protest, she broke the kiss and pulled the phone out to answer.

"This is Keen."

"We've got The Watchman in custody. Ressler caught him trying to escape from the parking garage. Have you got Reddington?" Samar sounded like she'd run a four-minute mile.

Lizzie looked at Red, still handcuffed, with her still sitting in his lap, looking at her with eyes that promised the world on a string. She smiled at him, giving up the last ghost of resentment, because she knew she was loved and by no one more than this man.

"Yeah, I've got him."

"Okay, we're going to arrange transport, debrief back in DC?"

Lizzie stood and made her way to the door. "Yeah that works. Bye." She ended the call and opened the door.

"Lizzie, if you could just unlock these restraints, I'd be obliged." His voice was somber, maybe even a little anxious. He imagined that she would back off now, regretting her earlier impulse. It had been a perfect moment, so if it was over, if that was what Lizzie needed to do, then he would deal with it with some dignity. He saw her grab the key from the bureau on the way back to him and sighed with relief.

She stood in front of him, with the key and a smirk on her face to rival any that he had ever given her. Without a word, she returned to her former position, balancing her weight across his legs. Bringing her lips within a breath of his, she whispered, "I think I like you in chains…" It felt as though weights had lifted off of his chest as he smiled against her mouth, and they picked up where they left off.

Outside room 3030, a "Do Not Disturb" sign now hung on the door.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N:** This little blurb actually comes from my memory of a summer vacation with my parents and husband in the Carolinas, shooting pool in our rental house with 1960s beach music playing in the background. As always, I own nothing but that memory. Also, a proper shout out to the Lizzington group on FB for their encouragement! Ya'll are awesome.

* * *

Sway

It was raining steadily, and steam rose from the sidewalks in the afternoon heat. Reddington was "borrowing" a safe house from a recently indicted hedge fund manager, a quaint row house in exclusive Georgetown. Dembe opened the door before she got to the top step and ushered her in with a quiet smile. She closed her umbrella and slid it into the coat tree in the foyer.

"Where is he, Dembe?"

"Raymond is in the basement."

Lizzie smiled her thanks and Dembe led her through the kitchen to the open door of the basement staircase. She could hear music, very faintly, and a clacking sound that confused her as she proceeded down the steps slowly.

The basement had been converted to a rec room at some point in the not too distant past. A large flat-screen television and stereo on one side of the room and a gorgeous pool table on the other side, but they faded into the background around the man shooting pool with the sleeves of his dress shirt rolled to his elbows. Lizzie's breath caught as she watched him line up his shot, hands sure on the cue, shirt stretched across his broad shoulders, trousers hugging parts of his body that made her blush and look away quickly.

His tie and vest were thrown over a chair off to the side and his collar was wide open. Lizzie almost swallowed her tongue as he straightened and took a swallow from the beer that stood sweating on the table. She had never seen him this…undone, at least, not without being shot or beaten to a pulp first. He set the beer carefully on the table and smiled at the stairway and the frozen Lizzie standing halfway down.

"Lizzie! Come on in. What an insufferable day it's been, you must be absolutely melting."

A wry smile tipped Lizzie's mouth up at the corners; trust Red to get it half right. She was definitely melting. She managed the last few steps without tripping over her feet and called it a win. "And your shoes get so hot, you wish your tired feet were fireproof…" he had the stereo on and the Drifters vintage beach tune spilled from the speakers. The green felt surface of the table was still scattered with colorful cue balls and she casually rolled one with her fingertip as she leaned her hip against the table.

Red stood with his cue in one hand and his beer in the other. He looked relaxed, even confident. She hadn't seen him like this in a long time and she realized how much she missed it.

"What can I do for you, Lizzie? Having trouble with the case?" He nodded at the file folder she held, and she glanced down at it like she hardly remembered it was in her hand.

"Oh, yes. We found some documents in Yemenov's office but we don't know what they are or what they mean. We were hoping you could give us some insight." She could not stop staring at him. He had been gone for almost a month after the shooting, only to pop back up, healthy and even with a little suntan. She still didn't know where he had been.

Reddington placed his cue in the wall rack and took the files from Lizzie. He offered her a chair at the table before taking his own. His lips pressed together and thinned as he scanned the pages in the file. Yemenov was a nasty character, an arms dealer, but the documents seemed to indicate he was just the small fish in this pond. Now they needed to switch bait to catch the big ones still swimming.

He was still contemplating the difficulties involved when Lizzie broke into his thoughts.

"I always loved this music." Red looked up to see Lizzie was relaxed in her chair, tapping her toe to the rhythm of the Platter's Twilight Time. Her eyes closed as she enjoyed the beach music of the sixties.

"I once spent a weekend in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, in the high summer. It was so hot you could bake cookies on the pavement, but the ocean breeze was so refreshing. I met a beautiful southern belle there who taught me how to shag. And, before you say anything, Lizzie, the shag was a dance, quite famous in coastal Carolina." He leaned back in his chair, took another drink of his beer while his unfocused eyes slid over Lizzie. That half-smile she loved quirked his mouth just so, and she wished she could just kiss him, just once.

He stacked the papers back in the file and stood. Lizzie remained seated; waiting for whatever intel Reddington offered. He picked up a small remote and pressed a button and the strains of Mel Carter's "Hold Me Thrill Me Kiss Me" slid like honey into the room. Red stood in front of her, hand out, a challenge in his eyes.

"Come on Lizzie, give it a try." Unwilling to back away from a dare, Lizzie took his hand.

She had danced with him before, at the Syrian embassy, but that had been a proper waltz, with hands in respectable places, and distance between bodies. This was different. He pulled her close, his arm around her back, her hand in his rested on his heart. She heard him humming along as they swayed in the shadows of the basement, his deep baritone echoing Mel's tenor vocals. Lizzie sighed and laid her head on his shoulder as the song trailed off into silence. Red stilled, released her hands and began to step away from her. Lizzie's skin missed him before he was two steps away. She grabbed the remote and hit the button and the song began to play again. Red turned back and she smiled at him, held out her hand.

"Again."


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N:** Unbeta'd, disclaimed, and bonus points if you can tell me where the title for this chapter comes from. ;-) Thanks for reading!

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She Went to Paris

The light in Paris really was pink. Lizzie rose from slumber with the sun after sleeping off the jetlag that had pursued her since she and Red had made their escape. She knew it would be a long time, if ever, before they could stop looking over their shoulders as they worked to clear her name from the most wanted list. Red had decided on Paris as a stopping point. She recalled him saying something about having an apartment in the city but she hadn't really registered his words. She was still deep in shock when they boarded his jet; the world below them had seemed almost crystalline in her eyes. Everything she was, everything she had known was dust now. She didn't even know how to properly mourn the death of all her dreams; they didn't even seem like hers anymore. They belonged to someone who didn't exist anymore, if indeed, she ever had.

Red had hung a flannel bathrobe on the back of her door at some point. Lizzie's memory of everything after the long flight was dim and surreal. The climb up four flights of stairs had seemed an eternity, even with Red carrying her bag, guiding her with a hand under her elbow. Now, she shrugged on the robe, grateful for its cozy warmth, and crept out of the bedroom like a thief.

The hallway was short and opened into a beautiful living room, high ceilings adorned with crown moldings, tall windows shrouded in gray silk curtains. The walls themselves were pale blue, making the somewhat small room appear much bigger. She tugged open one of the curtains and found glass doors that opened on to a tiny balcony, and smiled at the amazing view of the city at sunrise. He was right; Lizzie decided ruefully, Paris is always a good idea.

A coffee maker sat on the postage stamp size counter in the tiny kitchen. She hunted through the cabinets until she found the coffee and filters. It took a few tries with the filters and grounds and by the time she was done she missed her Keurig at home. While it brewed, Lizzie prowled through the cabinets and refrigerator; someone had stocked them. Who did Red call for this sort of thing if he didn't have Dembe with him? She thought about some cereal, as she poured her cup of coffee, but decided to wait for Red to wake up. They could decide on breakfast then.

It was cool outside, and the tile of the balcony was rough under her bare feet. She sat carefully, trying not to spill her coffee. As she sipped, she tried to let her brain relax. What was behind her was gone; she wasn't going to be able to get it back. Whether or not her name was ever cleared, she'd never go back to the FBI. No law enforcement agency would have her at any price. She would have to find some other work. Maybe she could look at this as a chance to reboot her life. After all she had been through, she was aware that some inherent part of her was different. It would make sense to change paths. She sipped her coffee, and let her mind rest for now.

He found Lizzie in a chair on the balcony. The morning light, filtered through the pink and grey clouds, gave her pale face some color again. She'd looked drawn and haggard for weeks as she attempted to survive the final detonations that had imploded her life like an old Vegas casino. Red approached her quietly, his own cup of coffee in hand, and tried not to think of how much he had wanted to see her here in this place. Lizzie spoke without turning; her voice was quiet but even.

"You said that one day I would look back and wonder; how did I become this thing? You were right. I'm wondering now, Red. I held a man captive on a derelict boat for months. What have I become? What have you turned me into?"

"A survivor. So, how about breakfast?" Lizzie turned to him and found him smiling at her and the warmth of it thawed some part of her soul. She would find her way, and he would help. He would be there for her.

"You owe me a croissant, Red. "


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N:** I'm sorry for this. I'm so sorry. (Much disclaimed, totally un-beta'd) Huge shout-out to **Michelle My Belle** because she made me do it. 3

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Stealing

Red bumped into Lizzie, moving her away from the main cluster of the tour group. She felt him press something small and cold into her hand and looked down to find a glass ashtray. She looked at Red, bewildered.

"Red! Where did you get this?" she hissed at him as he turned away from her. He had insisted on this tour of Buckingham Palace during their brief sojourn in London. Lizzie had never been in the city and he was leaving no tourist attraction unvisited. They had toured the Tower of London and seen the Crown Jewels, gone for a spin on the London Eye and seen the changing of the Guard. Lizzie loved seeing all the sights she had only ever seen in movies or television, but she was exhausted, and now Red was shoving things at her, looking slightly furtive and she had a bad feeling about this. But she put the ashtray in her handbag anyway and tried to catch up to the tour group.

They were almost done when she noticed Red was missing. She scanned the crowd, thinking perhaps he had paused to look more closely at something, but he was nowhere. A tiny thread of worry wove itself into her mind, what if Red had been recognized and apprehended? That seemed unlikely, but she couldn't shake the feeling. She continued with the tour group, keeping her eyes peeled for the man who had been her constant companion for the last six months. She couldn't lose him. She just couldn't.

Red found Lizzie waiting for him outside the Palace gates. He had run into an old associate in the hallway and had stopped to say hello, forgetting that Nigel was terribly chatty. Before he knew it, the tour was long gone and he knew Lizzie would be frantic with worry over his absence. He loved the way her face lit up with a relieved smile when she saw him. She hugged him like he had been gone for a month, then she pulled away and punched him in the arm, hard.

"What were you thinking, wandering off like that? Do you have any idea how worried I was?"

Red rubbed his arm; his Lizzie had a nasty right jab when she wanted to make a point. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and steered her towards the main road. He knew a great pub where he could get a beer and work on smoothing Lizzie's ruffled feathers.

The pub was suitably dark and worn around the edges. They found a corner table after grabbing their drinks at the bar. Lizzie was not yet accustomed to flying under the radar. The best way to hide was in plain sight. Red had made a high art of it long ago but she was learning. She still had moments when she just knew Interpol would be crashing through the door of whatever safe house they were in, and those were long nights for her. Life on the run was not for the faint of heart.

"Why did you give me an ashtray? Where did you get it?" Red chuckled as he sipped his pint of lager. The twinkle in his eyes told Lizzie he had been up to some mischief.

"A friend of mine and I once made a bet, when we were both in Afghanistan, after I unwisely boasted about being able to acquire anything anyone needed, that I couldn't steal an ashtray from Buckingham Palace. We made a friendly wager, and I forgot about it until recently. He was a nice fellow, an Army doctor. I'll have to track him down; he owes me fifty pounds now."

He studied Lizzie's face in the shadows of the pub. She had been giggling at his story but now she seemed uneasy.

"What's wrong, Lizzie?"

"The ashtray you gave me…"

"Yes…"

"I don't have it." Red was taken aback. That wasn't like Lizzie.

"What happened to it?"

"A tall man wearing a sheet came up to me and basically told me I had stolen goods in my bag and if I gave it to him he wouldn't tell anyone. So I gave it to him."

"Lizzie!"

"Red! You were missing in action, he seemed to know what had happened and I couldn't risk being questioned by the police or security or whatever. I gave him the ashtray. He said he wanted it for a friend anyway."

"And you believed that story? He was winding you up, Lizzie. A man wrapped in a sheet doesn't likely have friends." Red sighed in exasperation.

"Well, he seemed to have someone with him. I watched him as he walked away; he got into a cab with a shorter blond man. Maybe it was his physician. I thought I heard one of the guards call him Doctor."


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N:** Just a little fluff bunny that tackled me this morning, and because I love Charleston. I think it would be Red's kind of town. Un-beta'd, of course, and properly disclaimed.

* * *

Sunrise and Gunshots

Raymond Reddington considered himself an observant man. You didn't survive in the world he lived in without picking up the skill. Those who did not usually wound up dead. But even a habitually observant man could be a little lax at times. Such as this morning, watching the sunrise over the Battery as he strolled along the waterfront. He had left Lizzie sleeping, newly blond tresses spilled across his pillow, to make his way to a favorite bakery on King Street.

Biscuits lighter than angel's wings, served with local honey, by a large woman whose smile could take your breath away. Everyone in Charleston knew Gwendolyn Akers, her ancestors had come to Charleston as slaves, and her many times great-grandmother had started the bakery during the Reconstruction. Gwen herself had learned to make the famous biscuits at her mother's knee, and had expanded her business to several additional locations. She was a baker by nature, but a businesswoman at heart. Red adored her.

"Raymond!" his name was a joyous exclamation in her whiskey tenor voice as she bustled out to give him a hug, which he returned. The shop was busy, as always. The Atkins diet held no sway here, all the locals stuffing themselves with delicious carbs until they almost swooned from the sugar. She stepped back and eyed him critically, assessing his health and well-being in that way she had. Something must have given him away, because her bright eyes narrowed on his chest, where the fresh scars of the recent gunshot had just healed. Red's smile was rueful, he could never hide anything from her; rumor was her grandmother had had the "gift", as the genteel South still called it.

"You keep on twisting the tiger's tail, Raymond. One of these days, your luck's gonna run out on you." Her admonishment was laced with fondness and he let himself be guided back to the kitchen, where there was a little table for two. She sat with him and took one of his hands in her own, and he could feel the calluses of her work on her fingers.

"Who is she?"

"Who's who, Gwen?" Her eyebrows arched at his attempt to deflect the question.

"The girl you're in love with. Don't you think you can fool me, Raymond Reddington. I got eyes. And you got love just pouring off of you like sunlight."

Red sighed in defeat. He should have known better. He only saw her maybe once or twice a year, but it never seemed to matter. Gwen always knew.

"It's Lizzie, Gwen. My Lizzie." He smiled across the table at her and something in his face must have told her what she needed to know. She rose from her seat and poured two cups of chicory coffee, with just a bit of sugar, and brought them back to the table.

"Your Lizzie? The one you told me about so many years ago, when you came here for the first time?" He had discovered Gwen and her family bakery almost ten years ago. He had fallen in love instantly, and decided to become a silent partner. Gwen had told him she had a vision for her business. He made sure she had the means to make it happen.

"Yes. "

"And you don't bring her here to see me? What happened to your manners, Raymond?"

"Well, I might have, but I didn't want to wake her. And we're in a bit of a …predicament."

"Predicament, that's what you call it? I watch the news, I saw the story from DC."

"It's much bigger than anything they would tell you on the evening news, Gwen. But long story short, we're hiding out here in Charleston for a day, maybe two. Then we're headed overseas. "

"How long?"

"As long as it takes."

"All right then." She took a long sip from her cup and gazed thoughtfully at him for a moment, before pulling a small cooler bag from under a counter. She placed a few cold packs inside and added a bag of frozen biscuit dough from the freezer, topping it with frozen water bottles. She brought it back to the table and handed it to him with a wide smile.

"Can't go on the run without provisions, can you? I'll pack you some fresh biscuits to go home with, this morning. You'd best be getting back, you don't want that girl waking up lonely." Gwen packed a carryout box with fresh hot biscuits, butter and a tiny jar of honey, poured an extra cup of coffee in a paper cup and handed all of it to him with a kiss on the cheek.

"That's for luck, because I'd bet you're gonna need it. "

He smiled at the short, stout woman who had always treated him like a brother and a friend, no matter what he had done.

"Thank you, Gwen. "

"You thank me, Raymond Reddington, by coming back safe."

The sun was higher now, and sparkled on the blue water as he made his way back to the safe house. The row of stately homes, with their Easter egg colors, never failed to charm him. He really hoped Lizzie was still asleep. He wanted to wake her slowly.

He hoped she liked biscuits.


	10. Chapter 10

A/N: This was a ficlet I wrote on Tumblr, but it seemed the kind of thing that belonged in Mulligan. As always, I own nothing, un-beta'd, yadda yadda.

* * *

The Only Way to Be Sure

Red smelled the smoke first. He knew camping was an awful idea. He hated it. Lizzie hated it. But they needed to go completely off grid for a day or so, just to let things settle. The first day had gone relatively well. They had set up the tent without an abundance of strife. Red wisely chose to keep most of their belongings locked in the jeep they had driven into the woods, only unpacking the tent and sleeping bags.

But as he drew nearer to the campsite, the smoke was thicker, more pungent than what would be produced by a standard campfire. His heart began to pound harder in his chest as he ran through the various scenarios of what could possibly have gone wrong.

He emerged into the clearing to find the tent ablaze. He had a moment of horrific flashbacks to so many years ago and immediately, desperately, called for Lizzie.  
She emerged from the other side of the jeep, wrapped in a blanket. The dim sunlight made her pale skin almost opalescent. He met her halfway and crushed her in a fierce hug, simultaneously checking her for injury and wondering why she seemed so calm.

"Lizzie, what the hell happened? Were you attacked? Who did this? Are you sure you're okay?" The questions tumbled from his lips like a staccato verse in an old jazz tune. She pulled away for a moment to adjust her blanket. She seemed…embarrassed? Red studied his Lizzie carefully.  
"Yeah, about the tent and the fire…I kind of did it." Her gaze slid away from his, like a puppy who has been caught chewing shoes.  
"What on earth? Why? How?" Honestly, the woman was a labyrinth sometimes.  
"There was a spider."  
"A spider? Burned down the tent?"  
"I was changing and cleaning up and it fell from the ceiling of the tent. I may have freaked out a little."  
"A little? You burned down the campsite!" He tried to keep his voice even and quiet. It was hard to do. Lizzie stared at the carnage she had wrought in the clearing but remained defiant.  
"It was the only way to be sure, Red."


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N**: I ordered pizza for dinner last night and then this happened...un-beta'd and disclaimed.

* * *

A Very Good Reason

"Pizza-making is a lost art, Lizzie"

"Red, we aren't making pizza. Because one, we have no ingredients here and two, just no. I am tired and all I want is for someone to bring me food I don't have to work for."

Red's lips pursed as he perused the selections over her shoulder. Their safe house this time was a single-story ranch style home in a "planned community" in Kissimmee, Florida. Lizzie thought the town was rather nice, once you got past the theme park miasma. Red looked as though he had been dropped from the moon, in his three-piece suit, while everyone else was dressed in the tropical style he had told her was called "Resort Casual". Lizzie knew almost nothing about it and cared even less, once they were settled in suburbia, she begged Red to order a pizza.

Ever since they had returned from overseas, she'd been craving pizza. Not "artisan pizza" or the "real" pizza they had tried in Naples, Italy; just greasy, awful American pizza, delivered by a surly teenager preferably. Lizzie booted up her computer and found a local chain with an online order form. Now she and Red were discussing toppings and crust. She had always known him to be choosy about food, but this was getting ridiculous.

"Red, it's not rocket science, just choose something. They have specialty pizza, or you can build your own. Look, you see?" Lizzie scrolled through the screen, topping her pizza with olives and mushrooms and bacon. Reddington however, was studying the list of options as though it were a legal contract. She could feel her stomach complaining about its empty state. She couldn't remember the last thing she ate; just that it had been some ungodly hour of the morning.

Finally, he selected green peppers and Italian sausage and frowned at Lizzie's muttered, "Finally." She finished the order and submitted it.

"Now we wait."

She was on the second chapter of her book when she noticed him glancing at his watch. Once, and then again only five minutes later. She continued to read but kept her eye on the White Rabbit in the armchair. After the third time, she put her book on her lap.

"Red, why do you keep checking the time? Are you late for something?"

"Of course not, but I am hungry. How long is this pizza going to take?"

"Probably another thirty minutes. We just ordered a few minutes ago."

She tried to go back to her book, but kept getting distracted by Red's muttered comments about why it took so long to get pizza that was practically pre-assembled and you'd think they'd make up for the lack of flavor with a little speed. She tried to conceal her laughter behind her book but to no avail. He rolled his eyes at her half-smothered mirth. Finally, the doorbell rang and Lizzie was off the couch like a shot, with Red close behind her, his pistol tucked in his waistband. Better safe than sorry was their motto.

The delivery guy was older than she expected, and quite attractive in a college undergrad way. He took his time opening the thermal tote, making small talk and smiling at her. Red was still concealed behind the partially open door and Lizzie could see him getting exasperated with the guy's flirtatious conversation.

"So, are you uh, dining alone tonight? Because I get off work in an hour-" His sentence was cut short as Reddington flung open the door with a muttered oath about idiot teenagers.

"No..." he paused to read the name tag, "Chad, she is not dining alone. Now if you could just be on your way, we'd like to enjoy our meal in peace!"

Chad backed up two full steps, hands raised in apology.

"I'm sorry, sir. I didn't mean to suggest…"

"Suggest, no. You meant to say it plain. Now, get out." Lizzie saw Red's hand move towards the gun holstered at his side and immediately began to wedge her body between Red and the door, pushing it shut with her hips as she juggled the pizza boxes.

"Here, take these, they're hot." She shoved the boxes into his arms so she could lock and bolt the door. Following him into the kitchen, she retrieved two bottles of beer from the refrigerator. Popping one open, she took a long sip, watching Red hunt for plates in the cabinets.

"So what on earth was that? Did you almost shoot a college kid for flirting with me, Red? Because that's not the way to blend in here."

He put two pieces of pizza on each of the plates and carried them to the table, with napkins.

"Of course not, Lizzie. I would never shoot someone for flirting with you."

Her arched eyebrows conveyed her disbelief eloquently.

"He had the pizza. And he didn't seem to be in any rush to hand it over."

"Ah, so you were going to shoot him for food." Lizzie rolled her eyes and sat next to him with her own plate of pizza. Red had already devoured one slice and was halfway through the second.

"Well, Lizzie, I was hungry."


	12. Chapter 12

A/N: This one is a short one, for my Gutterbugs. Un-beta'd, disclaimed and all that jazz.

* * *

Hold Music

"Lizzie, really? Must you litter the streets of DC with cell phones?" Red was a tiny bit exasperated, but Lizzie chalked it up to his being worried for her and now Dembe as well. But she can't quite keep the mutinous scowl at bay.

"Sorry, Red, I was too busy fleeing for my life to worry about keeping a cell phone in my hand. I was driving using a rearview mirror while being shot at, if you recall."

"Yes, Lizzie, it was very Grand Theft Auto, I know." He sighed and shifted in his chair, trying to release some of the ever-present tension from his shoulders. Lizzie dropped into the seat next to him, leaning her head back against the cool leather and closed her eyes. She couldn't seem to recall a time before this constant state of fight-or-flight, adrenaline rushes and jags coming so close together these days she no longer required coffee, not that she had time to drink a cup.

She could hear him rustling about, and then the sound of his voice giving account numbers. He was getting her another phone. He never stopped trying to take care of her. No detail was too small. Lizzie tried to relax and catch a nap.

Red's increasingly loud voice disturbed her rest after only a few minutes. She opened one eye carefully, to see him on the phone still, lips pressed tight, brows knitted, whatever the person was saying on the other end of the line was not what he wanted to hear at all.

"Listen to me; I do not need an iPhone. I don't need a phone at all; I have phones by the gross. I need you to turn off the old phone and activate a new one. I can give you all the necessary information. No, no, that is not what I want. Don't…" he stopped midsentence and glared at the phone in his hand. He looked so utterly aggravated; Lizzie couldn't help the chuckle that escaped. His narrowed gaze shifted over to her and as always she was captivated by the flow of expressions over his face.

"They put me on hold. Again."

"How many times does this make?"

"Third time in this call. They want me to get an iPhone. They don't want to activate the old technology. Honestly, why do they even call this customer service?"

She smiled at him. Criminal mastermind and Renaissance man, and he was stuck on hold.

"Do they at least play music?"

"Yes actually, Rolling Stones at the moment."

"Put it on speaker, I want to listen." He pushed the speaker phone button and lay the phone down between them. Lizzie began tapping her foot to Mick Jagger's distinctive vocals.

_"I can't get no…satisfaction…_"

The irony of the song wasn't lost on Red, the corners of his mouth began to twitch slightly, and soon he and Lizzie were both laughing out loud.

"Sir…?" The tinny voice of the phone company representative interrupted Mick's chorus. He picked up the phone and cut off the speaker.

"Yes? Are you going to do as I have asked now? Have you consulted the cell phone gods?" Red rolled his eyes as he listened to the squawking voice on the other end.

"No, you know what? Put me back on hold and get me your supervisor. I'm done talking to you."

He put the phone back down and pressed the speaker button again, just in time to catch the last bit of "Satisfaction".

"Well, at least the music is good. Honestly, Lizzie, what is it about the iPhone?"

Lizzie laughed until she cried.


	13. Chapter 13

A/N: A little holiday crack-y fun for the winter hiatus. Un-beta'd and very much not owned by me. Although an excellent gift idea, should anyone feel generous. :-)

* * *

Silent Night

It wasn't supposed to be this cold in Mississippi, Lizzie thought as she let herself into the apartment she was sharing with Red in Tupelo. She had driven up from Birmingham that day and she was tired. All she really wanted was a sandwich and a shower, followed by a crash landing into whatever bed she found first. As she made her way down the short hallway, past the kitchen, she could see Red sitting on the couch, watching television. It looked like a holiday special was playing, a concert of some kind.

The orchestra backing up the singer on the stage began to play "Silent Night" and, as she watched, Raymond Reddington, the Concierge of Crime, began to sing along, in an enthusiastic, if slightly off-key, baritone. Truly the season of miracles, Lizzie smiled to herself as she shrugged off her coat and scarf, making enough noise to catch his attention; she was not anxious to have a gun pointed at her today.

"Lizzie? You made it, finally. Come and sit, would you like some wassail?" Red bounded up from the couch, smiling. She had always envied him his unflagging energy.

"Wassail? Do I even want to know what that is?"

"Well traditionally it's an alcoholic beverage similar to punch, served warm. I don't know what the original ingredients were back in merry old England, but I've gone with a mulled red wine, spiked liberally with brandy. Here, try it." He ladled some into a mug and passed it to her with a smile just lopsided enough to know he had been enjoying his libations for some time.

"Are you drunk, Red?" He looked affronted by the question, but she noticed the faintest flush colored his cheeks. With his usually inscrutable green eyes gone bright, he seemed effervescent, like the holiday lights Lizzie had seen while driving the back roads of Mississippi.

"Nonsense. I've had maybe a cup or two of wassail and a bit of fruit cake. You should definitely try the fruitcake. It's homemade and delicious."

"Red, fruitcake is the national punch line of the holidays. It's horrible. It's a gag gift or something you give a co-worker you don't really like. I think I gave some to Ressler last year."

"I'll have you know, Lizzie, that fruitcake, done properly, is a delight. And this was obtained from an authentic source. "

"An authentic source. Which would be?"

"Church ladies."

"Church ladies…Red, what on earth? Did you steal a cake from some church-going grandmother?"

Red seemed more insulted, if possible. He wandered back into the living room and resumed his seat on the battered couch. The cake sat on the coffee table, on a large platter, studded with red cherries and pecans. Lizzie followed him with her steaming mug of fragrant wine punch. She went to set her cup on the table, and as she did, her nose twitched at a familiar scent. A few more discerning sniffs confirmed her theory.

"Red, the cake smells like a distillery. Did you spill a bottle of scotch over it?"

"Of course not. Real, genuine fruitcake is soaked in alcohol, usually brandy. And I purchased it from Beatrice's "secret stash" at the bake sale that the church down the street was having. So, to answer your earlier question, I didn't steal a cake from anyone's grandmother. I'm not a monster."

Lizzie picked up the knife and cut a portion of the cake, laying it on a nearby napkin. The first bite almost took her breath away. Her eyes watered as she chewed.

"Oh I should have mentioned. Beatrice was out of brandy when she was making her cakes last Sunday. So she had to substitute with what she had on hand, which, unless I miss my guess, was Wild Turkey 101."

Lizzie took a sip of her drink to cleanse her palate. The irony of that didn't escape her and she chuckled briefly. That cake was strong enough to kill a horse, and given the size of the slice that was missing from it, she made her way to the kitchen while Red continued to watch Mariah sing about all she wanted for Christmas.

"Lizzie, what are you up to?"

"Making some coffee, Red. I think you're going to need it."

The coffee began to brew and the scent warmed the air. Lizzie turned off the burner under the wassail before returning to her place on the couch. She picked up the fruit cake once again and broke off a small bite. Once you got past the burn of the bourbon, the cake itself was not bad, rich with spices and dried fruit. Red looked over and smiled at her as she finished the slice.

"It's actually pretty good cake."

An hour later, the coffee sat on warm. The blue light of the television played over the man in the vest, shirtsleeves rolled to the elbow, snoring gently, and the blond woman asleep, curled up beside him, head on his chest. On the coffee table sat two empty mugs and half of a fruitcake.

All was calm. All was bright.


End file.
